


The Counsel of Erestor

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [9]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Elrond really isn't as wise as he'd like to be, Erestor is smart, Gen, Manipulation, Persuasion - Freeform, cunning sneaky Erestor, devoted Erestor, why choose Legolas for the Fellowship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another exploration of Elrond's reason for sending Legolas as the representative of the elven races......</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Counsel of Erestor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Teitho Sickness challenge (did not place....). With thanks to jeza_red, whose headcanon Erestor shamelessly borrows from....

“My lord,” I begin, “it is not my place to comment on the thoughts and doings of Istari – if Mithrandir says this quest is for him, then so be it. As for his halflings – certainly any relation of master Bilbo will be tough and persistent – but that, I think, is not in question. The rest of the company – my lord, you must know,” although I sometimes wonder if he truly is deaf to the talk and gossip of his own realm, “there is speculation as to which elf – or elves – you will send.”

Speculation, and indeed, bets are being made.

Elves being what elves are, bets are made, talk is talked, and very little else is done. It would be well that this matter be resolved.

He looks at me, and gives a slight raise of the eyebrow,

“Surely there can be only one strong favourite for such a task?” he says.

Ah. 

Indeed.

I feared so.

However, I am not chief counsellor for nothing.

“Well,” I answer, “there are many factions – and all have some reason on their side. Of course, much depends on how many elves you wish to send. One elf – for I hear there is only one dwarf young and fit enough to go – or two – for there will likely be two Men in the Company, the King and his Steward indeed, should victory be found. And two halflings, for that matter – your own words have made that clear.”

I wait, to see if he will answer, but he makes only a gesture to continue.

“The obvious choice,” I say, knowing he will disagree, but still, it is, and there is good money on it – though not my own; I do not gamble. Risk is unnecessary. “The obvious choice is your daughter. Better by far to send her, officially, well-equipped, and with your blessing –“

“I will not risk the life of my daughter,” he says, his hand clenching into a fist.

Ignorant peredhel.

“Do not even speak so in jest, Erestor,” he threatens, “I will not hear it.”

My turn to raise a brow,

“Better to send her, than have her follow as Luthien followed Beren,” I say, “you know – all know – she has been spoken of as Luthien come again so many times, she half believes it herself,” and I wonder what her mother, or indeed, her grandmother, would make of your reaction. She, and they, are not daughters of Men, to be so ruled and trammelled. There are moments, my lord, when your mixed blood shows in a quite – discreditable – way. 

I do not say it.

I learnt long ago that there are things Elrond will not hear, and the wise elf turns away from them. It is usually possible to find another way. Besides, I am not sure Arwen wishes to ride out. If she did – then I think all would know, and if she did – I would be by no means the only elf to support her cause.

No, indeed. 

If she did, I daresay my friend would lend her his own horse – which might be some comfort to her father. Asfaloth being a horse with more sense than most.

However.

“Your sons, then,” I say, “one or both, they are close to Aragorn, they know his virtues and his faults – they care for him – and for the sake of their sister’s happiness they would dare much. They are also two of our most competent warriors, trackers, and diplomats – when they choose to be charming, there are few who can refuse them.”

He lowers his eyes and then, almost disingenuous, looks up at me, 

“Yet how can I part them – and there can be only one elf. I dare not risk offence to our dwarven allies by seeming to favour us, and yes, you are right – two Men, two halflings – but one Istari – one dwarf – one elf. As for the other two places – I know not yet. Mithrandir argues strongly for the other halflings.”

Other two places.

The whole restriction of nine is an invented thing. 

Still.

I nod, accepting the idea, for the power of tales is strong in both elves and mortals – and if the concept gives comfort – then those of us who are a little more – rational – had best accept it.

“One elf,” I say.

And now I suspect I know whom he has in mind.

So.

The battle begins.

“Who could you choose?” I ask, pretending puzzlement, “ideally one would want a healer, yet one who could also bear arms, one who speaks many tongues, is known to deal well with mortals, is courteous, charming, yet strong enough to endure many privations. I cannot think who in Imladris could do these things. We are too comfortable here, too used to having all our things about us, too used to servants, too used to the life of elves – we do not deal with many mortals – only Bilbo, and those of the Rangers who pass through. Who could you send from this household – who could the House manage without?”

“The House,” he says between gritted teeth, “had best learn to manage. Erestor, there is only one choice, and you know it. Glorfindel – he has some healing talent, he is certainly our most courageous fighter, he has the halflings charmed already, and I cannot believe there is an elf alive who is stronger.”

I nod, slowly, as though considering.

“Then you will leave your guards to the leadership of another, lesser elf. Very well. I daresay the lady Celebrian will understand the importance of this mission if it so befalls that we must sail and one day explain the loss of her child – children – should the command be less competent than in other years. No, my lord, I understand your choice. All that you say is true. It is, I think, an interesting idea, to consider Glorfindel one who will travel well under the command of Estel, as he still thinks of him,” and that is a lie – he thinks of him not at all, I suspect, “and at the side of a dwarf, one of the Naugrim, one of the race whom he still blames for the loss of Doriath” another lie, he cares not, and why would he, it was not his home, not his land, but – it sounds well enough, he certainly is not fond of dwarves, “– I am afraid some old grievances die hard – but I daresay young – Gloinson, is it? – will have the strength of character to understand and bear with an ancient. Glorfindel’s Westron is now competent, though he will never be as fluid and compelling in a language not his own as we are used to hear him be, and his lack of any other mortal language, I am sure will not be an impediment – no, the only thing that concerns me is – and I wonder that you are not likewise worried – is his health.”

There is silence as he unwinds all this.

“His health?” he asks, and I wonder if this means he is ignoring the other issues, or if we will return to those, “his health? But he has been riding out, he has been perfectly well each time he has reported to me?”

I nod, slowly, thinking fast,

“Indeed,” I say, “indeed he has, and when he rides out, he is well. It is the – lord Elrond can it be that you have not seen this? – it is the Enemy’s Ring. Why, I do not know. Perhaps because it is a creation – no, a distillation, a concentration if you like, of powers opposed to those that sent him back. He suffers in its presence. Have you not seen him these mornings – when he manages to appear at breakfast at all – he is clearly ill, unable to breathe comfortably, to think straight, to see, to speak – and you want to send him as part of the Fellowship?”

I wait, wondering.

My lord looks down at his hands, and then back towards me,

“Erestor,” he says, and I wonder if he has seen through me, “do you have a reason to wish Glorfindel not to go? Can it be – you are my most valued counsellor – you surely would not wish to go – I am aware you yourself possess many of the qualities needed –“

He has not.

I shake my head, smiling, 

“My lord Elrond, you know, and I know, that I have barely touched a sword in – what – over four thousand years – I have not drawn weapon in anger since we came to Imladris, and hope never to again. I was tired of war – and I remain so. I would not be suitable – I have less patience with fools than my friend – perhaps because I am less often the fool – no. This is not an honour I desire.”

He stares past me at the window,

“Then – if you do not wish to go – are not suitable – and Glorfindel cannot – my sons – I think they are not able to be separated, and I must send but one elf – do not start to speak again of Arwen, I will not risk my daughter – I do not wish to hear what you have to say of Luthien – Luthien’s father perhaps did not fear the wrath of her mother and grandmother as I do – who then can I send? How can I ask any lesser elf of Imladris to go where Glorfindel dare not?”

It is a good question.

“Do not ask one such,” I say, smiling slightly, and at his puzzlement, I tilt my head in amusement, then look slightly upwards at him, “send Thranduilion. He is young, and headstrong, and rash – he will run towards adventure. Estel – Aragorn – he will be a more confident leader with this elf at his side than if he is overshadowed by Glorfindel. You know he would be always the youngster, never able to take up the mantle you would have him wear – he would never be able to even appear in command of my – my friend. But he and this Legolas – they may build a strong friendship, both of them feeling themselves lesser sons of greater fathers. Besides, Mithrandir will like to see the possibility of healing between that house and the race of dwarves – Mirkwood and Erebor are near neighbours – it would be of benefit to both to build a friendship there. Thranduilion is sure to have some healing knowledge, living in such a perilous realm – for that matter, they have much to do with Esgaroth – he will have dealt with mortals before,” surely, I think, surely that must be true at least, “and he is certainly not used to a comfortable life.”

He considers for a moment,

“He may be more used to the type of fighting that will be needful – not pitched battles so much as running and shooting from concealed cover – yes. You may have a point. Only – how can I tell Thranduil I have sent his son where I would not send my own?”

By letter.

At great distance, and with many soft words, I think.

I do not say this.

“Offer it as praise to his son’s competency, to his courage and honour – to his unspoilt elven abilities. You know how Oropher was always dismissive of Noldor city dwellers – how proud he was of his Silvans. We will draft a letter that presents it all as the greatest of compliments,” I assure him.

He nods,

“I think that might be the wisest course,” he agrees, “but Erestor – should Glorfindel be seen by a healer? If things are as ill as you imply?”

I shake my head,

“No, my lord, doubtless he will be well when the Fellowship departs,” I assure him, “and I think he is keen that little attention be drawn – he does not wish to demoralise the halflings.”

Besides, if you were to look, even you would recognise the symptoms of a hangover. My friend drinks too deep – he does not say why – but I know.

He does not wish to be held responsible for so great a fate. How could you ask this of him, are not the nightmares of one failure – in his own mind – the loss of one land, one lord, one city burnt and friends slaughtered – enough?

He is afraid of the temptations the Ring could offer. Afraid that it will call to him, speaking of mistakes that could be put right, of those who are dead who could be called back, of battles that could be won without the loss of so many innocents.

He does not speak of such things – but I know.

And I will lie as fluently as the Deceiver himself, if it keeps my – my most dear friend – my combmate – my Glorfindel safe.


End file.
